Wild Horses
by amberpire
Summary: Even before Jack was a Guardian they have always been on opposing sides, but there is something to be said about their similarities. ;Pitch/Jack;
1. Chapter 1

**Wild Horses | Chapter One**

_face up against the glass  
I'm looking out  
_**  
**

...

There used to be a sick kind of pleasure to it. It was what made Pitch crawl out from under beds in the first place, snaking black tendrils around sleeping children to watch the peacefulness slowly melt from their faces, replaced with something darker, more twisted. Something more like him. It was never about hurting the children - not physically, anyway - for there was a huge difference between pain and fear. Fear works in a much more subtle way. The manner in which it quietly seeps into their skin and poisons them from the inside out was what pleased him most. Pitch didn't often stick around till morning to see the children's faces after a nightmare, because with morning came soothing parents and the amnesia of the sun, but he did stay just long enough to feel satisfied; he stayed for the few brief moments when he was believed in.

Pitch hovers with both hands behind his back in front of a mostly drawn window, feet planted on the roof's gutter. Inside are a pair of sleeping twins, small redheaded girls. There is a wheelchair by one side of the bed, closest to the window, and the child it belongs to is frowning in her sleep. Her nightmare is fairly easy to manipulate considering her handicap; a simple manifestation of her wheelchair becoming caught in a thick puddle of mud while her friends and family run away from her, leaving her behind, is all that it takes to get her squirming. Pitch waits for that familiar rush of accomplishment just like he has for the past few weeks, amber eyes all but burning holes through the glass of the window, but there is nothing. There is just a whimpering girl and nothing.

Scoffing, Pitch moves, walking horizontal to the gutter until he's to the corner of the roof. The shadows flip him right side up, back facing the condescending stare of the moon. He doesn't know the name of the city but he's in a fairly quiet one somewhere in eastern France. The houses are small and tightly sewn. He could touch the house next door if he leaned far enough - he has half a mind to because the children there are still awake and tweaking with the closet door is a foolproof way to scare them, but he just stands there, mouth pressed firmly into a straight line. It's not that he doesn't want to - he always wants to - but he knows the effort would be fruitless. He would simply be as he is now, hearing a child's heart rate begin to quicken with no sense of satisfaction. What was the point?

He is rolling his eyes at himself when he sees the other Spirit, form growing rigid instinctually. Keeping still and turning his eyes elsewhere, Pitch mumbles, "Not even one?"

Sandman is circled by his trademark golden cloud, his pudgy arms crossed and his expression even more so. With a sharp nod of his head, a trail of dust curls toward Pitch, navigating around his waist until it disappears through the window of the children he had just been watching. With a slight twitch of his brow, Pitch feels the grasp of his nightmare loosen and give way. The redheaded girl is using her wheelchair to race against the others, and she is winning.

"A little greedy, don't you think?" Pitch turns until he is facing the moon. "Every night you get to spin millions of delightful fantasies, but I can't have one bad dream?"

The dream Spirit doesn't move, merely continues to give Pitch the most judgemental glare his fat, orange face can muster. Pitch doesn't hear the Mare approach, but when he feels the nudge of a nose in his palm he reaches back, running his hand over the small creature's mane. It gives a small snort of pleasure in response.

The Sandman is watching him with the cruelty of a hawk. He is a tiny thing but is a worthy opponent when it comes to combat, even more so now that Pitch has lost a significant amount of power since the year previous when Sandman and the other Guardians had successfully beaten him back into the shadows. Pitch isn't naive enough to think he would win if he tried to fight the dream Spirit now, no matter how much he desperately wants to punch his little golden face.

Sighing, Pitch closes his eyes, the moon's white beam paling his dark features. "I suppose you're here to remind me that I can't even win small battles, right?" One eye cracks open, sliding to the corner where it can watch the stoic Sandman.

To his surprise, the Spirit shakes his head. Gold sand materializes above his spiked hair into the shape of what Pitch first things is a flower, but when he opens his other eye and focuses, he sees that it is a snowflake. Pitch frowns, confused, and the sand begins to shift into a tall, hooked staff.

Even more befuddled, the Nightmare King shakes his head. "What about him?" Pitch nods toward the conversational sand. "I haven't seen any of the Guardians since -" since he failed, he thinks, but swallows the words when they reach his tongue. "I don't understand what you're asking."

Sandman shakes his head, the sleep dust spiraling again. First, he sees the Guardian in question lying down, panicked lines jumping from his head. Then, the figure is flying up and leaving, disappearing in a puff of sand.

"What? You think I scared him away?" Pitch chuckles, looking down to thread his fingers into his Mare's hair. "As much as I would love to take credit for that, my dear Sandman, your fellow Guardian's departure had nothing to do with me."

The golden Spirit doesn't look convinced. Dropping his feet to the roof, he begins to approach the other man, only for the black Mare to dodge in front, a threatening whine in its throat. Sandman hesitates, anger coiling his brow. He shows the image of the boy lying down again, more striking lines shooting from his head.

"If your precious ice elf was having nightmares, you and I both know that has to do with his personal fears moreso than me." Pitch crosses his arms. "Whether or not one is truly afraid of me is irrelevant. Everyone, even the Guardians, fear something. Everyone has nightmares regardless of how brave they believe themselves to be." Bending slightly at the knees, the Boogeyman tilts closer to Sandman. "I am not too proud to admit that I am not currently in the best shape to go about tormenting one of the Guardians after what happened last year." A sly grin curls across his lips. "Someday I certainly hope to torture all of you, but in this state?" He points toward the window where two girls are sleeping happily, one of which having already completely forgotten her nightmare. "When I can barely maintain a single nightmare in one child?"

Sandman frowns. He steps back, eyes scattering across the roof's tiles.

"You truly wanted it to be my fault, didn't you?" Pitch pulls the Mare back to his side. "It is so much easier to point the blame on someone else, anyone else, than to even consider that perhaps you and your band of twits might have done something wrong, isn't it?"

Turning away, the golden man lifts his legs from the roof, a cloud carrying him upward. Typical - flee instead of confront the possibility that the Boogeyman might actually be right about something. Pitch moves until he is directly beneath the Spirit, head tilted back to watch him leave. A long trail of sand sprinkles the houses below him as he departs. Mumbling something insulting under his breath, the Nightmare King looks to his Mare, its amethyst eyes watching him expectantly.

"It's pretty sad they can't locate their own pet, isn't it?" He scratches the creature's chin with a black nail. He brings his lips to the horse's forehead, eyes closing briefly as he plants a kiss there, only for them to snap right back open. Spine straightening, he smiles, taking the Mare's head in both hands. "I know where he is." The Guardian had been easy to find the last time Pitch had isolated him - a predictable location. He's surprised the others hadn't thought of it already. Was the boy less transparent around his peers? From what Pitch remembered, he had been quite easy to read.

Pitch swings one leg over the Fearling, fingers curling into its mane. Pressing his heels into its side, the animal takes off, galloping into the night's sky. It is the first time in much too long that Pitch feels something other than slayed expectations. He is curious. He is excited.

What could possibly scare Jack Frost so much that it would make him run away?

* * *

**A/N:** _Finally, after months of not posting anything and swearing up and down I would dedicate myself to a multi-chaptered Black Ice fic, I finally bear fruit! I know this chapter is a little short - about five hundred words less than I usually write for a chapter - but this is really more of an introduction. Upcoming chapters will be closer to the 2,000 word mark that is my standard._

_This is rated M for probable future explicit scenes, but there will be no non-con or force. Personally, I don't think Pitch gets off on physically making someone submit to him. I think it's much more in character for him to find pleasure in them doing it on their own. Or maybe I just have too many Boogeyman feelings, which is a great possibility._

_Also was this movie not THE movie of 2012? I am just saying._

_The title and beginning quote are from a Natasha Bedingfiled song called "Wild Horses". I know what you're thinking - Natasha Bedingfiled, with her pockets full of sunshine, probably isn't the first thing you think of when you think of musical inspiration for Fear itself. Give it a listen, though, and maybe you'll see why it reminded me of him._

_I hope you're enjoying the story so far; I'm beyond excited to see where this story goes (:_


	2. Chapter 2

**Wild Horses | Chapter Two**

_how do I turn this thing around  
is this the bed I chose to make  
_**  
**

...

It is barely seven in the morning when Pitch arrives at the South Pole. The sun is so offensively blaring against the snow that he has to hold an arm to shade his eyes, amber orbs scanning the tundra. It's obvious why Jack would choose to come here - it is always winter. He doesn't have to chase the seasons around the globe to be within his own element. It's probably similar to the reason why Pitch stays underground most times; it is perpetually dark there, and it is in the absence of light where fear breeds.

Dismounting his horse, the Boogeyman lowers his arm and arrests it behind his back with the other. The cold is there, summoning goosebumps from his gray flesh and making his teeth clench against its bitter bite, but he can tolerate it far better than any human. He certainly prefers it to the sweaty, godforsaken heat.

With the mare wandering curiously away from him, Pitch begins to walk, his back always held in a strict, straight line. For a long while he is acutely observant, eyes sharpened to catch sight of a bobbing bit of boy in blue or the wave of his childish stick. As the morning wanes and Pitch becomes more and more blinded by the snow, his mind begins to drift, and his feet start to deviate from their straight path, focus slipping. The South Pole is sparcely populated. He can't feel any nightmares - or dreams, for that matter - this far out in the arctic. He had noticed it the last time he was here, but things had been so chaotic then that he hadn't had even a moment to appreciate it. Now he stops, tilts his head back and closes his eyes, and takes a long, deep breath to relish in the silence. Warm breath tumbles from his lips in a light fog.

And then he feels it. Fear has a distinct sensation, almost like a sound - a low, thick strum when it is coming from humans, but Spirits like him produce a more heightened, defined noise, like a high harp string being plucked. Jack is close. It tugs at a place inside of him like a coaxing finger. The Boogeyman's eyes open again and he's moving forward, side-stepping a boulder blue with ice and staring down a snowdune's slope.

He's there. Lying on his back in the snow, staff abandoned several feet from his right hand, Jack Frost is making a snow angel. Pitch really shouldn't be surprised; he's more amused, actually, leaning his shoulder against the ice beside him and smirking down at the winter sprite. Having witnessed Jack's ferocity in battle, his almost violent determination to be the 'good guy' has damaged Pitch's ability to keep in mind that the boy is a Guardian. Of fun, even. Jack could be dangerous if it was in his nature to be. He's powerful. Pitch still stands by his statement of over a year ago, that the two of them would have made a great team, but, in hindsight, and especially now that he is watching Jack making a goddamn snow angel, it seems like a foolish idea.

Watching silently from a distance, Pitch begins to listen in to Jack's fear still calling in, attempting to decipher it. Some fears are more easily read than others - Jack's insecurity about not being believed in is still there, though it would be silly to think that Jack Frost would ever become as widely devoted to as North or the others. There is something else, though, something deeper, and Pitch has to narrow his eyes to concentrate. He can almost taste it like a snowflake on the tip of his tongue when the boy below suddenly springs to his feet, scrambling for his staff.

But it's not Pitch he sees. It's his horse. Jack angles the staff toward the creature, knees bent, calling out to catch the mare's attention. It regards him with an indifferent snort.

"Get out of here!" Jack swings his staff, as if that will spook the horse off. "There's nothing here for you, you - you dream killer!"

"That certainly isn't the best comeback I've ever heard." Pitch means to think the words to himself, only becoming aware that he's spoken them when Jack is shooting a ball of cold, hard energy in his direction. Pitch manages to get out of the way, the hit splintering ice from the boulder. Grinning, Pitch continues, "Someone's a little trigger happy, hm?"

The distance between them makes Jack's expression all dented eyebrows. "Go away, Pitch."

"Ah, so much angst with you, Jack." The Nightmare King begins descending the snow slope. "I know you died a teenager, but centuries have passed since then. Your hormones should be under control by now, don't you think?"

Jack lowers the head of his staff but doesn't relieve himself from his offensive stance. He watches Pitch's every advancing move with sharp attention, and Pitch can see the way he's calculating how to counter every gesture.

"Your tension is unnecessary. I didn't come here to try and coax you to the dark side." Pitch's lips curl on one side. "Although that offer indefinitely stands, these are peace times."

"Then why _did_ you come here?" Jack finally loosens up, crossing his arms with his staff locked in one elbow.

Pitch shrugs. The horse has trotted towards him, wiggling its head under his arm. He strokes the beast's mane. "Apparently, and these are all assumptions on my part, you left quite abruptly, abandoned your post, if you will, and, naturally, your friends assumed I played a role in it somehow." He meets Jack's eyes. "According to Sandman, they believed I scared you off."

Jack's fear plucks at him again along with a frown on the boy's lips. Pitch's head tilts slightly - Jack's fear _did_ have something to do with him. Why?

Wrinkling his brow, Pitch probes further. "I'm surprised they didn't think to look here. It seems obvious that you would come to a place like this." He gestures to the frozen wonderland around them with his free arm. "Is this not the epitome of winter? This must be like home to you."

Jack looks away, blue eyes tracing the blinding snow at their feet. "It is," he says, so softly that Pitch isn't sure he was supposed to hear it. "I told them not to look for me. I said I'd be back in a few days. I just -" A hand tangles in his wild mess of white hair. "I needed to think."

"You're scared." Pitch can't muffle the smile that grows on his face. With the panicked look Jack gives him, he almost wishes he could. "You're trying to run away from something." Pitch narrows his eyes again, taking a slow step forward. "What are you afraid of? It isn't as simple as it was before. Not many believe in you, there's always that, but there's something else -"

"Get back." Jack's staff is aimed at him with both hands gripping it tightly. His face has gone stone again.

"It's me." Pitch ignores Jack's warning, beginning to circle the boy. "You're afraid of me to some degree, obviously, but that's not it exactly, is it?"

Jack jabs his staff forward. "Pitch, I'm serious, back up or -"

"Or what? You'll blast me?" Pitch chuckles. "You should be old enough to know that fear doesn't work that way, Jack. It grows inside of you and festers. It's not something you can physically remove yourself from." Pitch draws closer, a hand reaching out to carefully push the hooked end of the staff away so the distance between them is easier to close. "It feels more complex, something I can't quite understand ..." This close, Pitch can see the salt and pepper of Jack's eyebrows. "How ... interesting ..."

"You want to know what I'm afraid of?" Jack's voice wavers for a brief moment. He clears his throat and straightens his back, attempting to meet Pitch in height, and makes a brave effort to look right in the Boogeyman's eyes. "I'm afraid," he says, swallowing hard before trying again. "I'm afraid I'm going to end up like you."

To say that Pitch is surprised is an understatement. The Nightmare King is so taken by Jack's words that he actually blinks and steps back. Unable to manifest an appropriate expression for what he's feeling - what _is_ he feeling? - his face simply falls blank, lips slightly parted.

"I'm afraid that I'm going to become mad and mean because kids don't believe in me, and when they do it's never for very long, because as soon as spring comes they just -" Jack's throat fails him. He steps back and shakes his head. "I'm afraid that I'm going to wake up one day and ... and hate them, and not want to protect them anymore, and then I'll be alone and angry. Like you."

An arctic wind billows through them, whipping shards of Jack's hair into his eyes. Pitch presses his lips together, golden eyes slowly moving to land on the horse at his side. He strokes its side absently, not sure what to think let alone say, and the silence is thick and haunting between them. Pitch is uncomfortable, but even more than that, he is scared. As much as he tries to dismiss the feeling, it rots inside of him just as well as anyone else. He is scared that that is all he is good for anymore - to be something others don't want to be.

"Do you remember when the man in the moon chose you?" Pitch trails his eyes to Jack's again. When he nods slowly in response, Pitch asks, "Did you ask him to?"

"No." Jack shifts his staff uneasily in his hand.

Pitch gives a grim smile. "Perhaps you should consider the possibility that he didn't ask me, either." Clicking his tongue, Pitch turns, the horse at his heels. Coming here was a waste of time, he tells himself. He might not have many hobbies, but he sure as hell could find better things to do than sit around watching a lost little boy wallow in self-pity, like making creaking noises in an old house or slithering through a graveyard or -

"Wait, Pitch."

It's the first time since - ever? - that someone has ever called him back. Pitch hesitates, a scowl on his lips as he looks over his shoulder. Sure enough, the winter Spirit is jogging after him.

"I'm sorry," he says once he's close enough, shifting his eyes between his bare feet and Pitch's face. It's a bizarre thing to witness - like the boy is embarrassed, or shy. "I guess I never really thought about it like that."

"I don't need or want your pity, Jack." Pitch throws one long leg over his horse. "Fear will always have a place in this world. I belong here. That's enough. For now."

Pitch is about to dig his heels into the horse's sides, to take flight and get away from this place, away from Jack, but a sudden icy grip stuns him into stillness. His head whips to glare down at the hand arresting his wrist, eyes then flicking with fierce defiance into Jack's cobalt eyes.

"Some evils are necessary." Jack tongues his lower lip, allowing a few beats of silence to follow before he withdraws his hand. "Hey, you've seen my home." The first genuine smirk that Pitch has seen on the boy warms his face. "Why don't you take me to see yours?" An eyebrow cocks up. "These _are_ peace times, right?"

And Pitch doesn't know what he's thinking when he doesn't outright scoff and refuse, galloping into the sky and leaving the boy behind. He doesn't know what he's thinking when he just gives a curt nod and faces the front again, and he certainly doesn't know what he's thinking when he allows the boy to not only mount his horse, but to go so far as to _wrap his arms_ around his middle, despite there being no danger were he to fall off.

Pitch doesn't think at all. He kicks his horse into gear and they leave the South Pole behind them.


	3. Chapter 3

**Wild Horses | Chapter Three**

_jumping head first headlong without a fall  
to act and damn the consequence_

_..._

The ride over the ocean is mostly silent. Pitch says nothing, but Jack will make occasional comments about the water below them. "Look at those waves," he says once, and although Pitch doesn't give a bloody damn about the waves, he looks; they're whipping wildly beneath them, like a huge beast is thrashing its limbs somewhere in its depths. A restless monster tired of the dark, wanting only to break the surface.

Jack keeps at least one arm around Pitch's waist at all times. The other holds his staff, which he twirls lazily in circles as they ride. Having the boy this close and away from the artic makes his natural chill that much more apparent. Pitch can feel it seeping through his robes, tickling his spine. Every once in a while he spares a look over his shoulder, catching Jack's profile as he looks out wistfully at the world below them. The wonder in his cobalt eyes is something Pitch has seen before - in children, in the other Guardians - but he's never been able to understand it. Following Jack's gaze, Pitch looks out and sees only a great vast plane of wasted opportunities, populated with creatures that live and die meaninglessly.

It takes nearly an hour for them to arrive at the mainland. Pitch still feels mildly uncomfortable - his intentions that morning had been to taunt the boy, to look into his fears for the sake of mocking him and now he's ... bringing him home? Pitch rolls his eyes at the idea that his lair, his underground hideout was anything akin to what most would consider a 'home'. And why would Jack suggest such a thing, when he knows Pitch is not above ulterior motives? For all Jack knew, this was all a part of Pitch's devious plan to ensare him onto his side again.

But it wasn't. Pitch hadn't even thought of that when he went searching for Jack in the South Pole. Now that he thought about it, there had been no real reason why he had gone out there other than curiosity. He had wanted to know why Jack had abandoned his friends and gone into solitude. And now that he knew, he almost wished he didn't.

Pitch's mare descends from the sky. He can access his lair anywhere, much like the damned Easter Bunny's tunnels could take him wherever he wished, so the fact that they land back in France is of little importance. Dismounting, Pitch straightens his robes and finally casts his whole vision on Jack, who is stretching his back and yawning, throwing his staff over his shoulders and hooking both arms on either end. The other Spirit isn't looking at him, almost nervously studying the ground instead.

"You still want to come?" Pitch doesn't notice the tone in his voice - scarily close to _sad_, as if Jack seeing his place of residence were of great importance to him - until he's already spoken. Stiffening his face, he meets Jack's eyes as the boy grins all too cockily at him.

"Yeah. The place can't be much creepier than you, can it?"

Pitch feels a humorous smile tugging at one side of his mouth. He forces it away, turning with a nod of his head and walking west. Shadows ripple beneath them like black water, making Jack jump in surprise. Pitch raises a hand, waves it, and stairs manifest beneath them, descending into a void within the ground.

Jack comes up to Pitch's side. Blowing a low whistle, he says, "Maybe it _is_ creepier than you."

This time, Pitch allows the grin to take form, if only because Jack can't see it from this angle. "If you're too scared, Jack, by all means you're free to go -"

"Pft." Jack swings a leg forward onto the first stair, dropping into the darkness. "I'll admit that some things scare me - like spiders, for instance. But the dark isn't one of them."

Pitch chuckles, following behind Jack. As they fall farther into the darkness, the stairs close above them, sealing away the night's sky.

"It would be nice to see where I'm going, though."

"This way." Pitch reaches out, his hand finding the angle of Jack's elbow. He falls into step beside him, guiding him down the rest of the curved stairs, until the dim light of a stone room greets them through a triangular entrance. The Boogeyman releases him as soon as he's sure Jack's eyes have adjusted, swiftly moving across the floor.

It's true that Jack had been to one of Pitch's hiding places before - the year previous, when he had captured all of Tooth's infuriating little fairies and kept them in cages. That had not been his humble abode, however. This place, this massive underground castle, is. The first room had a higher ceiling than one would have thought possible considering it was beneath the Earth's floor. Hallways branched off from either side through jagged doorways, their paths not lit. In the center was Pitch's decaying globe, black strings slithering like tadpoles across the continents. Pitch takes a seat in a nearby armchair as he watches Jack approach it, a frown clinging to his lips.

Extending his staff, Jack indicates the globe. "These are all your Nightmares that are out there right now?"

Pitch nods. "Weak things, at the moment. All thanks to you and your friends."

Jack's face grows stern. "You know why we -"

"Oh, I know." Pitch waves a dismissive hand. "The Guardians are the good guys. Happiness and love and cupcakes are your specialties." He props his chin onto bent knuckles. "And I'm the lowly villain with a cold, black heart." Tilting his head, Pitch's amber eyes narrow tightly on the boy across from him, who has returned to studying the globe.

"We were talking about you a few weeks ago." Jack plants his staff on the ground, turning to meet Pitch's raised eyebrows. "The Guardians and me, I mean."

"I'm flattered."

Jack's grin is tight. "We were talking about our centers ... wonder and hope and that stuff, and I was saying that the only reason we existed is because -" He looks to the globe once more. "Well, because you exist."

Pitch's eyes narrow further, but Jack continues before he has a chance to interject.

"I mean, think about it. If everything was perfect all the time, if every child out there was happy every single day, there wouldn't be a need for the Guardians. In a way, we need you to do ... this," he nods toward the Nightmares.

"That's very comforting, Jack. That you Guardians give me just enough strength to make sure you're needed." Pitch's voice is sour.

"I even argued that you're kind of a Guardian, too."

A lurch in his stomach almost makes Pitch feel sick. "Excuse me?"

Jack is smiling again. "Kids need to feel afraid in order to become brave."

Shadows twist around Pitch's form angrily, lifting him out of his seat and into the air. When Jack turns to look at him, Pitch is surrounded by black spikes, his teeth bared, arms and legs lost in the darkness. "I do not work in favor of those _brats_ you protect," he sneers, watching what little color Jack's face has drain away. "I despise them. I despise the Guardians. I want nothing more than to scare the lot of you straight into insanity."

To Jack's credit, he hasn't backed away. He doesn't speak until Pitch has lowered his feet back to the ground, running his hand through his hair as if to physically shake the sudden rage out of him.

"Wow, you are a class A drama queen."

That certainly catches Pitch off guard. Lips parted, he stares at Jack with something between anger and disbelief.

Jack raises his hands in surrender like position. "I'm just saying."

Pitch regards the boy icily. "...Drama queen?"

"You know. Like, you get all worked up and make a big show out of things." Jack wiggles his fingers. "It's funny."

"Funny?" Pitch tastes the word like rotten food on his tongue. "I am many things, Jack Frost, but funny -"

"Is surprisingly one of them." The sprite twirls his staff like a baton in his fingers. "Oh, don't give me that face. It's a good thing to be funny. There's probably a lot of stuff that's good about you." Jack turns in a slow circle. "Interior design might not be your forte, but if you were going for the horror movie feel, you nailed it."

The Nightmare King bites the inside of his lower lip to control himself because, gods, he feels like laughing. "Are you teasing me, Jack?"

"Are you letting me, Pitch?" Jack chuckles, thin legs carrying him toward one of the entryways that branch off from the main room. "Aren't you going to give me a tour or something? I am a guest, you know."

"I wouldn't go in there if I were you."

"Why? Is this where you keep your dirty magazines -_ holy melting ice caps_ -!" Jack soars backward, nearly careening straight into a now standing Pitch's chest. Reflexively, Pitch's hands rise to fall on Jack's shoulders, keeping him upright.

"No. That's where I keep the spiders."

Jack shoots Pitch a dark look over his shoulder. "You did that on purpose."

"Perhaps." Pitch steps away, hiding his grin while nodding toward another, less daunting doorway. "You still want a tour, Frost?" It's strange - Pitch has to acknowledge, much to his dismay that he _wants_ to give Jack a tour of his home. He wants to show him the stables and the gallery, his lab, the library, where he makes his meals ... and although he can't pinpoint why, exactly, he decides that it isn't necessarily important. Not right now. In Jack's presence, it's hard to pay heed to his mostly scrutinizing thoughts and the way they threaten to choke him at any moment.

"Only if you promise not to, like, chain me up or something."

"Not without your permission, Jack." Pitch blinks at his own words, surprise making his eyebrows rise halfway across his forehead. He steals one glance at the other Spirit, taking note of the slight discolor of his cheeks. Merlin's beard, is Jack Frost _blushing_?

Chuckling to cover his own uneasiness, Pitch turns and steps into the hallway, immediately being swallowed by the darkness. For several moments he doesn't hear footsteps following him and he stops, twisting backward to pry through the dark, searching for the mouth of the hallway. Had he sufficiently scared Jack off? Was Pitch comforted or upset by the idea? He honestly couldn't tell, but he doesn't have much time to think it over because Jack _had_ followed after him, quiet and nimble on his bare feet, and all but beats his face off of Pitch's arm.

"Ow! Jeez, Pitch, would it kill you to invest in light bulbs or torches, at least?"

Pitch can see Jack perfectly despite the absence of light - in fact, he prefers to see this way. People think that shedding light on something can bring out everything there is to know about it, but Pitch knows better. In the dark, people don't know what's watching them. It's in these moments that they're easiest to read.

"If it will stop your whining." Pitch snaps his fingers, orbs of yellow light appearing in intervals down the stone hallway with loud pops. He turns to Jack planning to say something but stops when he catches the boy staring up at him carefully, expression unsure. There are a dozen decisions in his eyes - to stay or go, to follow or stay put, to trust or to flee. Pitch finds himself swallowing thickly, waiting in awful anticipation.

Jack finally cracks a small smile, sweeping his arm forward. "After you, your highness."

Pitch, ignoring the relief that cools his muscles, rolls his eyes and starts to walk. "And_ I'm_ the drama queen."


	4. Chapter 4

**Wild Horses | Chapter Four**

_wild horses, I want to be like you  
throwing caution to the wind_

_..._

Darkness works beautifully in the way that it lacks depth - his palace could go on forever if he truly wanted it to. Much like how the Guardians could fly or use portals to go from one place to the other side of the world, Pitch's shadows defied the logic of space, physics, time. He really didn't have to walk anywhere to get from room to room; the shadows could blink him in and out of wherever he wanted to go. But with Jack at his side, studying the stone walls on either side of them, Pitch can't bring himself to use up any more time than necessary.

And although this fact disturbs him on some level, Pitch blames it on his overall solitude for the past three centuries. He's certain this is the longest interaction he's had with another Spirit that didn't involve violence. Every few moments Pitch finds himself casting his gaze sidelong to rest on Jack, as if to reassure himself that the boy is still there.

Pitch shows Jack his kitchen, silver and sleek and filled with supplies he rarely uses, ancient wine bottles lining the ceiling. "I don't know why I never considered you a drinking kind of guy," Jack says, gesturing to the drinks. "For some reason I only saw you quenching your thirsts with the tears of orphans."

"You think you're hilarious, don't you?"

The dining room is next with a large table at its center, meant to seat eight. Jack marvels at the glittering chandelier. "Freeze that and I'll strangle you," Pitch says, only partly joking, but Jack laughs anyway. Next is the library, which Pitch stays just outside of as Jack wanders inside. For the first time, Jack abandons his staff, leaving it to lean against an overstuffed chair in the dusty room's corner. Hooking his thumbs in the pockets of his pants, the boy walks around the perimeter of the library, scanning the hundreds of spines with curious eyes. Pitch finds literature to be one of the few things that bring him peace and has read thousands of volumes. One's life became tortuously monotonous when extended into immortality, making some of Pitch's books of choice not exactly ones he is proud of. He's about to usher the boy out when Jack stumbles upon such a title, giving a high pitched sound that can only be described as a giggle.

"Is this -?"

"Yes. And before you dare judge me, keep in mind that I am in the business of making Nightmares."

"What does that have to do with you reading awful young adult romance books about vampires -"

"Sometimes," Pitch interjects, "I feel like torturing someone in particular, and authors, good and bad, have amazing imaginations to work with."

Jack's grin diminishes significantly. Twisting to Pitch, he follows the older Spirit back into the corridor, following its curve to a set of stairs. They descend wordlessly, the sound of snorting horses and kicking hooves making Jack freeze beside him.

Pitch pauses, glancing backward. "What is it?"

Jack's white pearls of teeth pluck at his lower lip. "Those things freak me out."

"Those _things_ are my pets," Pitch says defensively. "And you rode one not an hour ago."

"Well, yeah, but that was just one. The last time I was surrounded by a herd of them, I thought I was going to die." Jack moves hesitantly to the step Pitch is on, the top of his head just meeting Pitch's shoulder.

"They only attack on my command and I assure you that if harming you had been my intention, I would have done so when you were making that snow angel earlier." He catches Jack's blush just in time, before the boy clears his throat. "I won't let them hurt you," Pitch finishes, something solid settling in his throat when Jack looks up at him with an expression he can't describe.

"Okay," Jack finally relents, and the two fall the rest of the way to the stables. Pitch shoulders the large door inside, the sweet smell of hay filling his nose. Varying volumes of whinnies sound as balls of lights appear above each stable.

"Hello, darlings," Pitch purrs, stepping to the closest one and smiling when it offers its nose for a pet. Stroking it, he twists to watch Jack walk farther inside, although he keeps a safe distance between him and the horses. Pitch uses his long, thin fingers to brush the mare's mane.

"Why horses?"

"Hm?"

Jack turns, nodding toward the beast that Pitch is currently petting. "Why not something scarier, like wolves or something? Unless you really wanted to stick with that pun: night_mares_." Jack clicks his tongue. "Very clever, by the way."

Pitch chuckles. He looks back to the horse, his smile broadening when it nudges its nose into his neck. "While the pun certainly works in my favor that was not the sole reason why I chose horses." Swallowing, Pitch avoids Jack's probing stare, instead becoming lost inside the horse's golden eyes. "I admire their wild nature," Pitch explains. "Animals in general are so much more genuine than humans. They work with their instincts and have no qualms about it. Everything they do is out of selfishness. They do what they have to do and don't give a damn because they have no reference level." The Boogeyman shrugs, pulling away from the horse, who whines at him. "Horses are sophisticated, intelligent, and loyal. No matter the distance, they always come back."

"Puppies are the same way, you know."

"I can't ride a puppy."

Jack snorts. "I'd love to see you try."

Without realizing it, Pitch is laughing, a grin curling one side of his mouth. Struggling to muffle it, Pitch turns away, giving the horse at his left one last pet. "I think that's enough sight-seeing today, Jack."

"Yeah. I should probably head back North before the Guardians send out a search party of Yetis -" Jack comes to a halt, his empty hands flexing at his sides. "My staff," he half whispers, jerking nervous eyes to Pitch.

The possibilities race through Pitch's mind without his consent. He imagines taking the staff and hiding it away, forever, lost in the dark bowels of his home. He sees the staff as nothing but splinters and scattered to the winter's breeze. Pitch could do it. He can feel the staff in the shadows of his library, defenseless and so very, very easy to take. A year ago Pitch would have killed for an opportunity like this.

Jack's body has grown frigid, as if waiting for Pitch to turn on him and lash out now that his staff is at a distance. Blue eyes are moving wildly between the stairs and the Nightmare King.

"Relax," Pitch says, slowly raising a hand and making a beckoning motion behind him. Barely a moment has passed before the staff is placed delicately in his palm, its form chilled and foreign. The power pulsing through it is amazing; Pitch swears he can see his breath just by holding it. There is a moment that passes between the two that is almost challenging - Jack daring Pitch to repeat what he had done last year by breaking the staff, and Pitch waiting for Jack to pounce to the worst conclusion and strike him first. The tension is thick enough to complicate Pitch's breathing as the two sides of him - since when were there two? - fight on the next course of action.

A horse kicks its hoof against the stone floor. Pitch's eyes shift to glance at it, the sight of his pet making his shoulders slowly lower from their stiffened position. Stepping forward, Pitch sweeps his gaze back to Jack and extends his hand, offering the staff silently.

Jack still doesn't look convinced. He eyes the weapon carefully, then Pitch's face, then back to the staff. Very slowly, Jack reaches out, curling thin fingers around the hooked stick and pulling it toward his chest.

"You do not trust me." It's more of a statement than a question, but Jack nods anyway.

"I think I have good reason to be wary," the winter sprite says. "You kind of tried to take over the world once. And you broke my staff. And you kidnapped Tooth's fairies, and you destroyed Easter, and -"

"Thank you for reciting my resume, Frost. How about we make a deal, hm?"

Jack's expression is so incredulous that his eyebrows have eyebrows. "Making a deal with the Boogeyman doesn't exactly sound like a very smart idea."

A slow grin steals the corner of Pitch's mouth. He leans down slightly, becoming level with Jack's eyes. "Giving a Guardian a tour of my home doesn't sound like a very smart idea, either."

The boy's expression clears if just for a moment. Straightening, he purses his lips and meets Pitch's eyes. "What kind of deal are we making?"

"One that prohibits us from hurting the other."

A cloud swarms over Jack's eyes. "And why would you make a deal like that with me?"

That question leads to about a dozen others - why had Pitch gone searching for Jack in the first place? Why did he bring him back to his only safe place? Why tell him about his books or his horses? Why didn't he hide the staff when he had the chance? Why did he have every intention of allowing Jack Frost to leave when he could easily use him as leverage against the other Guardians?

Pitch coughs. "If you're not interested -"

"No! I mean, no. I mean, yeah, I'm interested." Jack's cheeks are scarily close to a pinkish shade. Thrusting out one hand, he tilts his chin back far enough to meet Pitch's eyes. "I promise not to hurt you, so long as you don't hurt me."

The Nightmare King's hand is gripping Jack's before he has a moment to consider. "Likewise."

As the strange duo make their way upstairs, the conversation becomes light again, the tension from earlier left behind in the stables. Jack prods him with more questions - "Where do you sleep?" "Oh, wouldn't you like to know." - and makes irritating comments about Pitch's choice of decoration, which includes cobwebs and distorted, gory paintings, mostly. But Pitch finds himself humoring the boy, matching him in stride, making sure to keep the path ahead of them well lit.

They emerge back into the main room. Now silent, Pitch leads the way to the opening they had entered from. With a quick wave of his head, the ground opens up, sunlight pooling inside. Pitch steps subconsciously out of its way.

Jack has one foot on the stair when he twists to look at Pitch, words on his lips that he doesn't know how to say. "Uhm," Jack starts, elegant as ever, and Pitch has to pin his heels together to keep himself from shyly toeing at the floor. "Thanks for showing me the place. It's ... nice."

"You don't need to lie to me out of fear of hurting my feelings, Jack."

"No, I mean it. I like it. It's very you."

The two lock eyes. Pitch is aware of his heartbeat for the first time in centuries.

"See you around, Boogeyman." Giving Pitch a salute, the boy sprints out of the darkness. The sun envelopes him just like it's meant to.

Shrouded once more in the safety of his shadows, Pitch leans against a wall and pinches the bridge of his nose. Gods, what had he gotten himself into this time?


	5. Chapter 5

**Wild Horses | Chapter Five**

_it's greener pastures I'm thinking about  
wide open spaces far away_

_..._

Whenever Pitch is feeling particularly low, or lazy, he searches for someone with a phobia. Finding humans who suffer from some kind of extreme fear - be it heights or centipedes or the color yellow (and, yes, that is a real phobia) - is like hitting the jackpot. The Boogeyman can spend weeks hovering around just one of them, milking them as much as he can before he risks drying up the well. Knowing what little he does about drug use, he can comfortably compare sucking the energy from a phobic person to getting high. Pitch feels most believed in by phobics. Their fear is genuine and deep and raw. It's addicting to be around them, filling their Nightmares with the things they hate the most and knowing that the people actually believe in it, even after they wake up. Separating from the person, the drug, is extremely difficult once he's latched on; more than once he's had to travel and stay as far as he can away from that sweet spot. Every time he stumbles upon one, he tells himself that it will just be another excruciating experience when he has to, inevitably, move on to something else, but here he is, standing outside of a New York coffee shop and peering in at a twelve, maybe thirteen-year-old boy who is on the verge of spiraling into a panic attack because he saw the barista sneeze.

Germaphobia isn't exactly the most exciting fear, but it's something Pitch can work with. He hums to the tune of the boy's anxiety, fueling it like gasoline on a fire. _She sneezed in your drink before she gave it to you_, he tells the boy, watching his face begin to pale. _She did it on purpose, too, just to get you sick ..._

The boy shoves his drink halfway across the table, alerting his company - another boy and two girls. Before they can question him, the boy is hustling to the bathroom, where he washes his hands once, twice, three times.

Pitch is laughing, quite pleased with himself, letting his eyes close as the boy's jagged fear tears through him. Taking a long breath through his nose, the Nightmare King sighs, content in his achievements, however small. When his eyes reopen, he is made aware of the fog tumbling from his mouth, and then the snow shedding from the sky. It's actually been snowing for several hours - Pitch knows this because that's when he arrived in this part of the country after following various radio stations for weather updates on where the next snowfall would be.

He tries not to ask himself why because he knows the answer and that really pisses him off. He has purposefully sought out a phobic person in an area with winter at its heels because he knows that Jack will be here and it's been over a week since the Spirit was at his home and, for the love of all that is deceptive, Pitch _wants_ to see him again.

Beating himself up about it seems appropriate. He's done plenty of that, actually, before he finally caved and left his underground home to venture back into the human realm, where the Guardian in question predominately lies. The better part of the week had been spent with Pitch all but tearing his hair out in boredom, pacing back and forth in his stables since sitting down and reading in the library only reminded him of how Jack had toured the room, all wistful and prancy with his goddamn bare feet and that infuriating half smirk of his -

Wow. Pitch rubs circles into his temple, turning away from the coffee shop's window to tilt his head backwards. Keeping tabs on where the phobic boy is - returned to the table, though anxiously keeping his hands to himself - Pitch cranes an ear to listen for the telltale sign of Jack's presence; laughter. Children's laughter, specifically. Unlike Pitch, the Guardians are restricted to the little brats. Apparently their fun and wonder don't remain innocent as they age. That's generally where Pitch comes in, but adults are far less exciting to torment because they have learned how to rationalize. When one no longer believes that there is any danger in the dark, Pitch has no power there.

That is why phobias are so special. They transcend age.

Oddly, it is not the sound of laughter that alerts Pitch that Jack is in the area. It's the now familiar high-strung ping of his still present fear. With barely a second thought the shadows have absorbed him, carrying him across corners and dim-lit alleyways to land across the street from a park of sorts, now blanketed with a thin sheet of snow. He hears the laughter now; a dozen or so children scurrying across the park equipment with their heads held back, tongues out. Pitch is searching the ground for evidence of Jack, frowning when he doesn't hear the sound of his cocky chuckling or see him interacting with the kids. He has to be here - there was no mistaking the sound of Jack's woes - but Pitch is half-convinced he had imagined it when he finally spots the winter sprite, perched on the tip of a glowing streetlamp. Jack's arms are crossed, chin cradled on top of them, and from this distance Pitch can't tell if his eyes are even open. Frown still dominating his lips, Pitch crosses the street, ignoring the vibration of vehicles passing through him.

Pitch has seen Jack with children before. It's very natural for him to join in the fun - hell, he _is_ the fun most of the time. To see Jack brooding alone in a corner seems more like something he would find himself doing.

The Boogeyman comes to a stop just below the streetlamp, leaning his shoulder against its post. He doesn't say anything, more than sure that Jack is aware of his presence, and instead turns his attention to the children, who giggle and scream with joy as snow litters their hatless heads.

"Last year," Jack says, his voice so quiet that Pitch can barely make out the words over the shrieking kids. "These guys believed in me. They could see me. But they've already forgotten." The boy waves a hand, a flurry of snow swirling toward the park below. Jack raises his head and stares straight out, eyes white in the reflection of the lamp. "I know it's not their fault. They're kids. They change. They grow up. But it's not ..." Failing to find a better word, Jack sighs and relents. "It's not fair."

"Most things in life aren't," Pitch replies, keeping his eyes on the children. "You'd think you would have figured that out by now, considering the centuries you've spent shrouded in invisibility."

"Well, yeah, but now the Man in the Moon has given me a purpose and these guys _still_ don't believe in me -"

"The Man in the Moon is kind of an asshole."

Finally, Jack looks down. He blinks slowly. "What?"

Pitch snorts. "Please, don't tell me that swear words are alien to you after all these years."

"No. I mean, why is he a - an asshole?"

Jack says the word like he's certain a parent will overhear and punish him for it. Pitch is all but gnawing off the inside of his cheek to keep a smile from stretching across his face because goddamn that is cute. "Well, think about it." Pitch tilts his head back, meeting Jack's eyes. "He creates me, lets me roam for centuries doing as I please without so much as a word of disapproval, then suddenly grows bored and creates the lot of you to fight against me. We are pawns in a very sick game, Jack. The Man in the Moon is not this benevolent superior being that you believe he is. He is a power-hungry shitbag with nothing better to do than watch the likes of us quarrel. He'll grow bored of you, too, in time, and he'll make something else to entertain him for a while, and then you will all be just like me. Bitter and alone."

Jack is frowning so deeply that it's as if his lips might scar that way. "You really believe that?"

"Yes." Pitch crosses his arms, leaning his back against the streetlamp. "Yes, I do."

A minute of silence stretches between them. Parents are ushering their children back into their arms to return home, out of the cold and the growing dark. When the park is vacant, Jack finally descends from his perch, landing quietly on his feet on the other side of the post.

"Why are you here?" Jack asks. He holds his staff over his shoulder.

Pitch would sooner throw himself inside a giant blender before he ever said _because I wanted to see you again_, so he comes up with a secondary response. "I found a boy who is terrified of germs."

"And he just so happened to be in this season-changing weather, hm?"

Pitch can hear the grin in the boy's voice. Looking over at him, he finds Jack doing just that.

"Shut up."

"If you wanted to hang out, Boogeyman, you could have just asked."

"Oh, yes, I'll remember next time to instant message you on your phone."

A bullet of laughter pierces the air between them. "Instant message? You mean text?"

Pitch snarls. "You know what I mean. I don't pay attention to the terms of their stupid technology."

Jack is still laughing. "Oh, man, Pitch, you are hilarious. I mean it. Comedic gold."

"I will skewer you with this pole so help me -"

"Okay, okay." Jack swings a leg out, spinning in a slow circle before standing in front of Pitch. Without the grin ever leaving his lips, he continues, "There _is_ a way to get a hold of me, though, if you ever want to hang out."

Pitch's instinct is to deny that he would ever want to 'hang out' with someone as infuriating as Jack Frost, but that would be lying and Pitch can't find it in himself to do that at the moment. "What is it? Wish upon a star?"

"No, that's the Blue Fairy, you ding-dong. Do you like Christmas music?"

Pitch doesn't have to say anything; his expression speaks for him.

"...That was a stupid question. Anyway, there's a song that has my name in it, did you know that? _Chestnuts roasting on an open fire, Jack Frost nipping at your nose_ ..." Jack had taken a step forward, a hand raised as if he were planning to demonstrate on Pitch's own nose, only to withdraw his hand a moment later. "That's it. That's the call. It's like my own personal jingle."

"You're kidding."

"You're jealous." Jack's expression turns smug. "We could come up with one for you. _One, two, Freddy's coming for you_ -"

"Jack." But Pitch is grinning despite himself, shaking his head as if Jack's childishness were endearing. "You are completely hopeless."

"And yet," Jack says, turning around and squatting. He sets his staff on the ground. "Here you are, seeking me out for company. I knew you'd miss me, Black." Jack stands, turns, and without another warning whips a palm-sized snowball straight at Pitch's face. The Nightmare King barely manages to dodge it, immediately growling as a reflex, but Jack is just laughing, bouncing on the tips of his toes.

It takes a moment for Pitch to catch up with his thoughts. He had gone straight into an offensive mode as quickly as a flicked switch. He is angry. He feels threatened. All of his instincts are screaming at him to attack, to maim, seriously injure, _kill_, but he doesn't. He sees Jack smiling back at him teasingly, something warm and foreign seeping from his eyes. For a terrified moment Pitch thinks he's begun to cry for some bizarre reason, but it's on the inside, not the out.

Pitch rolls his suddenly loose shoulders. "Are you trying to get me to have _fun_?"

Jack's grin brightens. "And if I am? What are you going to do about it?"

Pitch knows that there is a crossroads here. This is a chance to back out of whatever this is before it escalates. The Boogeyman does not make friends and he certainly doesn't get chummy with Guardians. But he realizes that Jack must have come to those same crossroads, too, and he's still here. Didn't that mean something? Pitch doesn't know what, exactly, and maybe he doesn't really want to, but the fact that it means _something_ keeps Pitch from retreating into the shadows like he has always done.

Instead, he bends at the knees, scoops a chunk of snow into his hand, and begins packing it into a ball-like shape. "I'm going to kick your ass."


	6. Chapter 6

**Wild Horses | Chapter Six**

_is this my life I'm wondering  
it all happened so fast  
__..._

Pitch had meant what he said about kicking Jack's ass. What he hadn't planned, however, and had somehow forgotten, was the fact that Jack Frost is Jack Frost and snowball fights are kind of his thing.

And, hell, can the boy whip one. Pitch swears that his pelted shoulders might even develop bruises from the velocity and force of the strikes - nothing compared to the energy Jack had thrusted at him once or twice the year before with his staff, but still rough enough to make the Nightmare King wince. While Pitch does manage a few good shots and uses the growing darkness to his advantage, there is no defeating Jack in his own element. The Spirit is unleashed and wild in the infant stages of winter, so very much like the children he's sworn to protect. Jack's excitement nearly causes a blizzard and it isn't until a car passing by slides into the curb that either of them notice. The panicked sounds of a pedestrian leaping out of the way have both Spirits pausing, though for different reasons; Jack is clearly concerned, arms lowering, while Pitch is watching on with glee as the echoing fear of the almost-victim sings out to him deliciously.

It doesn't hold his attention for very long, though, because he's now aware that Jack is distracted and to not take advantage of that would be a waste. Mimicking a pitcher in a baseball game, Pitch hurls the snowball straight into Jack's chest, almost sending the boy to the ground. Pitch allows himself a loud guffaw, a sound so genuine that it spooks him on some level, but it has little time to think about it because Jack is pouncing on him.

Alarmed, Pitch tries to block by raising his arms, but he's too late. The wiry Spirit is already upon him, the weight of his surprise causing the Nightmare King to tumble backwards, landing hard against the ground. Icy fingers arrest his wrists and pin them to either side of his head. By the time Pitch is able to catch his breath, Jack is straddling him, grinning far too cocky for his own good. The streetlamp directly behind Jack illuminates the edges of his hair like a halo.

Pitch can't find words, too thoroughly distracted with the position they're in, the mischievous look on Jack's face, the fact that their pelvises are currently pressed together and Merlin's beard -

"Tuckered out, Grandpa?" Jack releases Pitch's wrists. "You are pretty old. I should be more gentle with you."

Pitch props himself up on one elbow. "I like it rough." He says it before he has a moment to reconsider - not that he regrets it, because Jack's cheeks immediately begin to sizzle. The boy scrambles off of the other man, finding his staff and pulling it close to his side. "You succeeded," Pitch continues, pushing himself into a sitting position and wiping snow from his sleeves.

"In what?"

Pitch half smiles, half grimaces. Turning to the boy, he lets his shoulders slump. "I had fun."

Jack's grin is back full force. "Excellent."

The Boogeyman comes to a stand, not aware that he's offered a hand to Jack to help him up until the boy takes it, springing to his feet. Jack holds Pitch's hand for a beat longer than appropriate, but neither of them address that fact.

"I do believe that's enough fun to last me for the next decade or so." Pitch stiffens when he sees a pale hand extending toward his face, amber eyes jerking fiercely to Jack's cobalt.

Jack's expression is exasperated. "Chill out. You have snow on your cheek." Continuing to come forward, Jack's cool fingertips meet the curve beneath Pitch's left eye and follows it out, taking with it a droplet of snow that had already begun to melt. Pitch watches Jack's hand hover hesitantly just above his flesh before it withdraws.

Pitch finds himself catching his breath.

"I could use a drink," Pitch mumbles, stepping sideways. Alcohol did have an effect on Spirits - he wouldn't keep an entire bar's worth of liquor in his kitchen if it didn't - but, it's strange. He already feels like he's had several drinks. His head is light and his knees are weak. The image of Jack's face is burning itself into his retinas.

"That would be awesome. Do you have hot chocolate in that dungeon of yours?"

Pitch raises an eyebrow. "Who said you were invited?"

Jack mirrors the other man's expression. "Well, if you're not interested -"

"That's not what I said." Pitch realizes a moment too late that Jack is repeating the same line he had used a week ago, when he had first offered to make a deal with Jack not to harm one another. Pitch had done it purposefully to trick Jack into admitting that he wanted to stay, and now the clever little shit had turned his own ploy against him. Refusing to meet Jack's smirking face, Pitch says, "I'm sure I can find something of the chocolate variety for you. I'll be drinking some rum, myself."

On their way back to Pitch's lair, a herd of mares pass by. Pitch gives them affectionate pets as they pass while Jack crushes his staff to his chest and gives them a wide berth. "Those things are so freaky," the boy says, glancing over his shoulder even after the horses have rounded the corner.

"I think they're precious," Pitch says, descending into darkness and hearing Jack yelp as he trips behind him. Standing still, the Nightmare King steadies himself as Jack collides into his back, a nose in his spine. "I would swear your middle name is Grace."

"Shut up." Jack shoves the older man in the back.

Pitch leaves Jack alone as he goes to prepare the drinks. Fortunately he does have some chocolate powder lying around, though he honestly couldn't remember where he had gotten it or how long it had been there. While the milk warms, Pitch slips into shadow once or twice, checking in on his company. Jack is almost always staring at Pitch's globe, running his hands along the slithering continents. Pitch returns with the drinks on a tray - "Awh, you look like a butler!" - but when he sets it down Jack is hesitant to take his cup.

"What?" Pitch sits on the sofa, gathering his drink in two hands and sniffing it. "You did say hot chocolate, correct?"

"Yeah." Jack's fingers flex in and out of a fist. He's staring at the steam curling out of the cup as if it might whip out and attack him any minute.

"What's the -" Pitch stops, sighs, and takes a long drink of rum. "You think I poisoned it."

"No." The boy sits a lapspace away from Pitch, takes the cup and peers curiously into it. "I mean, I just -"

"You do not trust me, even after I promised you no harm. I do believe poisoning you falls under that category."

Jack tongues his lower lip. "They say I shouldn't trust you."

Pitch's eyebrows raise. "The other Guardians, I assume?" When Jack nods, Pitch sighs again, swirling his drink in his hand. "They're smart."

The white-haired boy casts him a sharp look. "So you're admitting that I shouldn't trust you?"

Pitch shrugs. "If I were the good guy, I'm not sure I would trust me."

There is a long pause where nothing is said, an eerie silence only the birthplace of Nightmares can produce filling the void. It's comforting for Pitch but it's obvious that Jack is a little tense, shifting on the sofa with his drink now cupped in both hands. Pitch wonders, exactly, why Jack is risking trusting him. Looking at Pitch's track record, he didn't come off as the kind of guy you'd tell your secrets too. Not that Jack had revealed much, but the fact that they were sharing the same space on friendly ground suggested some degree of trust, didn't it?

"But I do." Jack brings the cup to his lips. "Trust you, I mean." He takes a careful sip. Pitch watches with fascination as the heat melts a bit of the frost at the tip of Jack's nose.

"Should I trust you, though?" Pitch places his half-empty glass on the table in front of them, twisting slightly to meet Jack's eyes. "Is the good guy always good?"

Jack stares back at him for a heartbeat, then, in one fluid motion, puts his cup beside Pitch's on the table and leans across the space separating them. Pitch doesn't wait for the boy's mouth to find his - he meets him halfway, capturing that cool, sweet mouth with hunger. Jack's fear has skyrocketed; Pitch can taste it more purely than anything before, making his lips hot. Some of it has to do with his performance - Jack didn't exactly have a long history of kissing anyone - but there was something else, too, something Pitch is way too distracted to decipher.

Pitch's easily dominates the kiss, but it is Jack who climbs on top first, claiming the Boogeyman's lap. The boy is lighter than he thought, though the way his muscles have grown tense is surprising. He would have thought the boy was much more wiry under that sweatshirt. Pitch would be grinning if his mouth wasn't already occupied. His tongue forces its way past Jack's lips. Jack's mouth, not surprising, tastes like a winter breeze. When Jack's hands flatten and slide down the front of Pitch's chest, the Nightmare King can't stifle the moan that eventually brings the heated kiss to an end.

Jack is panting. The closeness has melted away some of the boy's natural bluish tinge, revealing a hot red mouth underneath. Hooded eyes meet Pitch's own.

"That was ..." Pitch doesn't know why he's trying to speak right now, especially since all the words that come to mind are far too embarrassing for him to say - amazing, wonderful, _so_ fucking hot. "Interesting," he decides, letting his head fall back to rest against the sofa.

An eyebrow cocks upward. "I'm making out with you, not giving you a lecture on physics."

A smirk curls one side of Pitch's mouth. "No, not that. The fact that it happened in the first place. That you initiated it." He mimics Jack's raised brow. "_That_ is interesting."

Jack's cheeks have all but set themselves on fire. Huffing, he starts to dismount from Pitch's lap, but the Boogeyman is quick to stop him, hands flashing to grab at Jack's hips, keeping him rooted.

"Stay," Pitch says, more of a request than a demand. Jack resettles but refuses to look the other man in the eye. "Why are you suddenly so reserved? I enjoyed it."

"You're teasing me."

"I am merely curious," Pitch replies. "We decided not to kill each other a week ago, and now we're snogging on my couch. It's an interesting development."

"Can we not -" Jack sighs. Looking down at his hands, he studies the lines in his palms before slowly raising them, taking Pitch's face in them as carefully as if he were made of glass. "Let's just not dissect this, okay? Let's just have fun."

Pitch's eyebrows are still raised. "Fun."

"Yeah. Adult fun. The kind of fun you don't have in the middle of a playground." Jack's smile is terribly cocky now, causing Pitch to hiss through his teeth when he rolls his hips forward. He's eyeing Pitch's mouth again, that damned cold tongue of his darting out to taste the Nightmare King lingering on his lips. "The kind of fun you have in the dark," Jack whispers, blue eyes meeting Pitch's for just a moment before they're kissing again, hot and hungry and demanding.

Pitch thinks he could get used to this kind of fun.


End file.
